


Fascinated

by Shapeshifter99



Category: Great Pretender
Genre: M/M, Post Snow of London, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24951109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shapeshifter99/pseuds/Shapeshifter99
Summary: Edamura is frustrated by how little he knows about Laurent. Laurent invites him out to coffee.
Relationships: Makoto Edamura/Laurent Thierry
Comments: 40
Kudos: 531





	Fascinated

**Author's Note:**

> Is this fic just me projecting my desire to know Laurent's backstory onto Edamura? Why yes, yes it is. Also it felt strangely weird to refer to Edamura as 'Makoto', but since this is a limited 3rd person POV from his perspective, I thought it was more fitting.

Before leaving Japan, Makoto Edamura had thought he had being a conman all figured out. Know your mark. Be on your toes. Prey on insecurities and weaknesses to get the best results. A little showmanship can go a long way. Never, _ever_ give up on the con unless you’re absolutely certain you’ve been caught.

He’d had no idea that leaving the safety of Japan would blow the holes in his technique wide open.

Now half a world away from home—could he really still call it that?—Makoto was still slowly realizing just how naïve he’d been.

Laurent Thierry and his crew certainly hadn’t taken as long to catch up on that fact. Most of the time Makoto felt like he was an amusing pet to them, doing his best to catch a flailing string while they all sat nearby and cooed at his antics. Well, that was mostly Laurent and Cynthia. Abby would mock him instead, though the ribbing had gotten more light-hearted since Singapore.

He was still trying to keep on the straight and narrow, but his excuses had become more and more feeble these past few months. Maybe it was because the heists he was involved in now were a far cry from the petty, malicious crimes he’d committed back in Japan. Yes, they were conning the hell out of millionaires, but there was a certain self-righteousness to the choosing of targets that allowed Makoto to keep ahold of his pride. Cassano, Sam Ibrahim, Coleman… Makoto was brave enough to claim that the money they’d stolen was justice for the corruption and pain these men had caused.

But he was also fool enough to still be tagging along with Laurent, Cynthia, and Abby despite his continued fear that he was getting in too deep to ever crawl back out.

So here he was, in Marseille, France after his unsuccessful attempt to regain his sushi-making job in Nice. As far as he could tell, they weren’t here for another con—Cynthia was worn thin from the Coleman fiasco and Abby had promptly told Laurent to fuck off when he’d suggested they start looking for a new mark.

For his part, Makoto was relieved that they were taking a break. Helping Thomas rediscover his inspiration and bearing partial witness to his reconciliation with Cynthia had been heart-warming, but Makoto had yet to go through a con with this crew without having a heart attack.

It was nice, though. Though perhaps unintentionally, these games they played were opportunities for Makoto to gently scrape away at the paint disguising his allies’ true colors. Just being around Cynthia felt more relaxing and he found that he could endure her teasing more readily. Similarly, after Singapore, his relationship with Abby had developed into a warm friendship that Makoto would never have imagined two years ago. Even Kudou-san and Si Won felt more familiar now.

There was only one person who Makoto still found indecipherable.

Makoto watched Laurent suspiciously over the rim of his coffee cup. They were at a small café in one of the older districts of Marseille on a frankly unexpected outing. Makoto had insisted on finding his own place to stay while they lodged in Marseille, content to find his own way around the town with frequent meet-ups with Abby and Cynthia. He honestly hadn’t seen much of Laurent since they’d arrived two weeks ago, which had suited Makoto just fine, and had been surprised to find him waiting outside his shabby short-term let that morning.

“Coffee?” Laurent had asked with a charming smile and although part of Makoto had wanted to go back inside and lock the door, a larger part had wanted to give in.

And here they were.

“You’re going to bore holes in my skull if you keep staring,” Laurent said mildly as he turned the page of his newspaper.

Instead of replying, Makoto took a sip of his latte. One of the best things about France was undoubtedly the quality of the coffee and he relished the richness of the roast. His gaze lowered from Laurent’s face to the front page of the paper—he wasn’t expecting to be able to read it, but he’d been working on his French since they’d moved on to Marseille. It had stung more than he wanted to admit to hear Laurent disparage his skills in Nice.

“Anything interesting going on in the world?” he asked, a bit unwillingly, after realizing he had no hope of deciphering the text in his distracted state of mind save for a few sentence scraps.

Laurent seemed a bit surprised by the question, though that irritating smile hadn’t faded. “Nothing in particular,” he replied cheerfully. “The international press has finally decided to give the James Coleman story a rest, so I imagine they’ll soon find another bone to chew, but it’s remarkably quiet at the moment.”

Makoto wondered if that bothered Laurent. Although there was an undoubted greed that motivated him, the scams that he ran were grandiose beyond belief. One had to question if egoism was behind it. But then, why were the marks he went after always guilty in some way or another? Again, Makoto found himself staring at a tangled knot in his hands, unbelievably frustrated that he couldn’t unravel the mystery that was Laurent Thierry.

“It’s probably driving you crazy that your exploits aren’t in the paper anymore,” Makoto said derisively, trying to regain ground in the conversation the only way he knew how—by being argumentative.

Laurent chuckled. “I might be vain, Edamame, but I satisfy that itch in other ways.” His cool blue gaze swept appreciatively to an attractive couple walking by their table.

Makoto grimaced—Abby’s comments about Laurent’s promiscuity weren’t entirely unfounded, though he had yet to see concrete evidence. “Gross.”

Laurent’s gaze returned to him. The moron was smirking. “A bold sentiment to express when in France. Nous sommes au pays de l’amour, tu sais.”

“Peut-être,” Makoto replied, stubbornly summoning the French he knew, “mais tes… perversions n’égalent pas… l’amour.”

Laurent’s grin broadened. “My, my, Edamame-kun. It seems that you’ve picked up some of the native tongue.”

Makoto shrugged, feeling the tips of his ears burn a little. Laurent’s praise and mockery were hard to distinguish, but Makoto admitted privately to himself that getting recognition from a man who seemed more worldly than him in every possible way was… nice.

They both lapsed back into silence, a surprise since Laurent usually couldn’t leave well enough alone, but a change that Makoto was grateful for. Laurent delicately nursed his espresso and perused the paper, whilst Makoto was content to sit back and enjoy the weak mid-morning light that was beginning to pierce the gray sky.

Finally though, his curiosity got the better of him. “So, is there a reason you asked me out here?” he asked, putting down his empty cup.

Laurent huffed a laugh and marked something down on the crossword puzzle page. “Can’t I just want to spend time with you?” he said.

“Not when it’s you,” Makoto replied. “You always want something from me.” _You always want something from someone._

The sunlight was striking Laurent now as well—limning his blond hair in cold light, highlighting his pale lashes, catching glimmers in his blue-grey eyes. Paired with his dark overcoat, grey gloves, and black turtleneck, he could almost have passed for a model. Or a mafia boss.

“Perhaps I wanted companionship.”

Alright, so it looked like Laurent wasn’t going to bite. He preferred to lead Makoto around by the nose, clearly. But Makoto wasn’t one to give up so easily. He leaned across the cheerfully yellow metal table and propped his head up. “You’ve got plenty of other people to bother. Abby, Cynthia…” Hell, he bet that even Si Won would be down for a chat with her handsome employer.

“Not as many as one would think,” Laurent said idly. He moved forward as well, so that they were bent towards each other like two reeds on a riverbank. Ah, there was that infuriating smile again. “Besides, I’ve hardly seen you these past few weeks. I thought I should check in with our resident green bean.” His breath warmed Makoto’s face and he suddenly realized just how close they were.

Makoto recoiled and felt a flush burn the back of his neck. How did Laurent manage to get under his skin so easily with only a few words and a bat of his eyelashes?

“Monsieurs?” The waiter had come over, seeing that their cups were empty. “Une autre tasse, peut-être?”

“Volontiers.” Laurent directed his blinding smile on the hapless man. “Un espresso, s’il vous plait. Would you like anything?”

“I, um. No, thank you,” Makoto mumbled. “Non, merci.”

“Un moment, s’il vous plait,” the waiter told Laurent.

Laurent’s expression turned slightly cheeky. “Ne prenez pas trop de temps,” he said, obviously teasing. “Mon copain vous trouve mignon.”

The waiter laughed and gave Makoto a curious, appraising look. When their eyes met, he flashed him a flirty smile that had Makoto choking on air before he turned and walked away.

“Did you just hit on that waiter for me?” Makoto hissed at Laurent.

Laurent looked at him with false innocence.

“I cannot believe you,” Makoto grumbled, slumping in his chair.

“Le pays de l’amour,” Laurent reminded him, a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth.

Makoto watched Laurent work through the crossword puzzle for a few more moments. “So are you from this area?” he finally dared to ask. “I know you’re French…”

“Close, but no cigar. Though I would have loved to have grown up in Marseille, it’s a beautiful city.” Laurent hadn’t looked up from the paper.

“Paris?” Makoto tried.

“God no. Parisians are the worst, absolute snobs.” Laurent wrote down another word.

 _Like you aren’t?_ “Then where?”

“Does it matter?” Laurent bit the end of his pen distractedly. Without conscious thought Makoto found himself zeroing in on the slight purse of his lips before he shook himself back to reality, and his target.

Makoto bristled and snapped, “Yeah it does, especially when you knew everything about me when we first met, yet you’re still a total mystery.” He felt less like Laurent’s partner in crime and more like another mark. It would have been enough to render anyone indignant, but with how he was slowly becoming privy to everyone else’s personal lives, Makoto felt something closer to pained annoyance at how Laurent kept him at arms’ length while at the same time manipulating him so easily.

Laurent finally stopped focusing on the puzzle and deigned to stare Makoto in the face. For once, he wasn’t smiling, and Makoto stiffened. Part of him wondered—if he kept pushing, would Laurent get angry at him? Kick him off the team?

_That’s what I want._

But was it?

His need for answers was more insatiable—but at least he felt the beginnings of a plan form in his mind. “Fine. But if you’re not going to answer my questions about where you’re from, then—” He leaned forward, even closer than he had before, so he could dip his fingers into the collar of Laurent’s turtleneck. There was a moment of hesitation as he brushed against the warm, stubble-rough skin of Laurent’s neck, but Laurent’s sharp inhale spurred Makoto onwards.

The hysterical urge to just keep his hand there, to press his pointer finger against Laurent’s pulse, to run his thumb along his jawline to those ridiculous sideburns, faded as he felt the body-warm metal of a chain beneath the fabric. Quick as a snake, Makoto hooked it and drew it out, and with it, the blue-green ring that Laurent always wore around his neck.

It had all happened in the space of a second, but that didn’t stop Laurent. His hand swiftly curled around Makoto’s wrist as the ring was pulled from its safe confinement and made the younger man pause. Laurent’s grip wasn’t tight—he could just barely feel the thumb on his delicate tendons, but he got the impression he’d crossed a line.

“So, what’s this?” Makoto said, all bravado. He’d gotten his prize, a rise out of the most unflappable Frenchman on the planet, but was starting to seriously doubt his curiosity was going to be worth the price. Still though—Laurent owed him answers, and if he wasn’t going to give them up willingly, Makoto was willing to try his luck wrangling them out instead. When had he gotten so… hungry for knowledge about Laurent? “Or should we try an easier conversation topic?”

“Perhaps scamming isn’t the field for you after all, Edamame,” Laurent replied, half-teasing, half-exasperated. “Extortion seems to be one of your strengths.”

Makoto raised an eyebrow. “I learned from the best.” He tugged on the chain a little, more interested in how Laurent leaned closer to him to avoid tension than the expensive glimmer of the turquoise stone. They were definitely in a compromising position now. If anyone were to pass by, it would be easy to mistake them for a pair of lovers. He minded that less than he thought. “So?”

Laurent smiled at last, slow and heavy. It burned through Makoto’s confidence into the center of his chest, where his need to know something, _anything_ more about Laurent prowled like a caged animal. They both knew he was bluffing. His blustering about the ring aside, there was absolutely nothing stopping Laurent from pulling free of Makoto’s hold and leaving entirely.

“I grew up in a city named Lyon. Ever heard of it?”

“Lyon?” Makoto repeated, with an approximation of a French accent. “Like… a lion? The animal?” His hand lowered, though he kept ahold of the ring.

“Not quite.” Laurent’s hold on his wrist had also relaxed, so that his touch was barely a ghost’s kiss on Makoto’s skin. “It’s in the east of France, more or less close to the Swiss border.”

Makoto kept quiet, hoping that Laurent wouldn’t pull… well, a Laurent, and stop there.

“A great city to grow up in. Full of history, and art… and good food, of course, though with the French, that’s a given. Let’s see, what else… it revolutionized the silk trade for France, you see. Lyonnais silk is exquisite. It was also where cinema was born—did you know that the inventors of film were a pair of French brothers? The Lumières.”

Makoto’s frown began to deepen as Laurent calmly recounted facts about Lyon. This… wasn’t what he had been looking for. Leave it to Laurent to try and sneak out of demands like this. Yet at the same time, Makoto wondered if this rambling was in fact an indicator of something else—like an unsettled Laurent. At some point, the waiter came and served Laurent his coffee. He tried to make eye contact with Makoto but he was too intent on examining Laurent’s every move for another crack. To be honest, he didn’t even notice it when the waiter left, dejected.

And Laurent was still. Going. Makoto’s brow furrowed and he began to lose focus as he tried to parse what the next play should be.

“Am I boring you?” Laurent drawled.

Makoto bristled. “Yes,” he said churlishly. “I want to know about _you_. What living in Lyon was like for you.” He looked Laurent straight in the eyes and steeled himself for his next move. “What are you afraid of?”

For a second, Makoto thought he had him. There as the tiniest twitch to Laurent’s face, as if he were stopping himself from speaking, then his expression smoothed again.

 _Damn it._ He’d lost the game.

Makoto dropped the ring, frustrated, and pulled back—but Laurent’s hand stopped him from retreating too far.

“You really just won’t stop, will you?” Laurent sounded amused, genuinely so.

“I don’t let go of things I want.”

Laurent smirked. “Oh?” he said lowly.

Makoto flushed. “Shut up, you know what I meant,” he snapped, yanking his hand free. He slouched in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, ready to sulk.

“I have to admire your tenacity,” Laurent admitted, smirk fading into his cover-all trademark smile. The one that was little more than a mask. “No one’s tried so hard to figure me out—at least, not to my face. You could just go behind my back and discover my secrets in other ways.”

 _It’s not the same,_ Makoto wanted to say, but at the same time, he couldn’t vocalize the reasoning behind that sentiment. There was a pleasure to digging into someone’s background and finding dirt, to learning exactly how to manipulate them without ever having met them.

But going behind Laurent’s back felt cheap, and not only because it deprived Makoto of a challenge. No, if anything, Makoto had reason to suspect that tracing information on Laurent would be incredibly difficult and not worth the time.

The reason why he was so determined to hear these things from Laurent himself, was, to his dawning surprise, because Makoto had absolutely no interest in manipulating his partner. He just wanted equal standing and… to know. To know more about Laurent, perhaps just for the sake of it.

What a disturbing realization.

“Edamame?”

“It’s Edamura,” Makoto grunted. He didn’t know what to do with this information he’d just discovered about himself—he feared that if he looked Laurent in the eye again, the conman would see straight through him and be sadistically pleased by his increased power over him.

So instead he sank further into his chair and tried to settle his racing heart. How the hell had gotten so fascinated with Laurent Thierry, of all goddamn people?

Laurent was watching him carefully, clearly curious about Makoto’s sudden silence. He delicately cleared his throat.

“I spent most of my early life in Lyon. I had quite a privileged childhood, but my education was never quite enough to satisfy my thirst for knowledge. So eventually, I sought it in other ways. But in most regards I had a very happy childhood.” He took a sip of his espresso, no longer steaming, and frowned at its temperature.

Earlier fears forgotten, Makoto stared at Laurent. His statements had been imprecise and vague, giving only the tiniest crumbs… but for Laurent, this was as if he’d offered a feast. He looked uncomfortable, the slightest tension in his shoulders and a tightness around his mouth and eyes that hadn’t been there before. It was small, but it was a start.

“I bet you were a brat as a kid,” Makoto said flippantly, resting his elbows on the table. “I also can’t help but imagine you with those dumbass sideburns, even as a six-year-old. You’d better be careful or I’m going to shave them off in your sleep one day.” He wasn’t going to push anymore—he’d gotten what he wanted.

Laurent chuckled at his mockery, easing, and Makoto found himself relieved to see it. “Is this you inviting yourself into my bed?” he teased and Makoto spluttered.

“Why do you have to twist everything?” he complained. “Are you like, perpetually horny?”

Laurent gave him a wink, his pale lashes glinting in the brightening sunlight. “Only for you, darling.”

Makoto’s face was flaming red now and he slammed his palms on the table. “You’re paying, just for that,” he warned Laurent, who was laughing openly now.

“I was already going to, no need to be ungrateful,” Laurent said as he waved over the waiter. “L’addition, s’il vous plait!”

Makoto was still fuming as Laurent paid the bill, but it was the run-of-the-mill exasperation that was now associated with these conversations. By the time Makoto had resettled, the waiter had been sent off with one last intrigued look at their table.

“So,” Laurent said with a smile, more open and honest than Makoto had ever seen him, “shall we go?”

Liar, conman, scammer, gentleman thief. Laurent Thierry was all of these things, but Makoto knew now that there was a lot more to this professional veneer. And somehow, someway, he’d been able to scratch through that first coat of paint. Laurent’s canvas still lay buried beneath layers and layers, but Makoto felt confident that given time and persistence, he’d finally see what Laurent really was.

Yeah, fine. He was fascinated by Laurent Thierry. He wanted to know more, perhaps everything. And Makoto never stopped until he got what he wanted.


End file.
